


wild horses run faster

by WeeBeastie



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Flint is a little obsessed with Silver's hair, Hair Kink, M/M, who wouldn't be?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 10:15:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10488549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeeBeastie/pseuds/WeeBeastie
Summary: Some short vignettes centered around John Silver's glorious curls. Set vaguely during/after season 3.





	

The first time Flint notices - really notices - how long Silver’s hair has gotten, it’s during a heated moment behind the closed door of the captain’s cabin. Flint fists one hand in Silver’s curls at the base of his skull, and Silver, caught off-guard, makes a noise halfway between pain and arousal. 

“Your hair’s getting so long,” Flint observes, giving the dark swirling mass an experimental tug even as he presses Silver into the wall with his hips.

“That does tend to happen when I cease cutting it,” Silver replies dryly, and Flint immediately resolves to wipe that fucking smirk off his face, quick-smart.

—

Flint awakens to the sensation of something crawling on his face, tickling his nose and eyelids. He jerks back, sitting up and feeling rather disoriented when all he sees is Silver, asleep, not quite snoring but definitely wheezing. His back is to Flint, and the cabin is pitch dark. Realizing the ‘something’ on his face was just Silver’s bed-wild curls, taking up most of his pillow and spilling on to Flint’s own as well, Flint settles down again.

“Your hair tickles,” he mumbles, and is surprised to get a response from his groggy bedmate.

“Tomorrow I’ll put it in plaits before bed, like a schoolgirl.”

Despite himself, Flint chuckles. Before long Silver is not-snoring again, and Flint soon follows him to sleep, dreaming of Silver with plaits and bows in his hair. It suits him. 

—

“Way, hey, and up she rises. Way, hey, and up she– ow, fuck,” Silver mutters from where he’s sitting on the window seat in Flint’s cabin, hair damp and lank around his bare shoulders. He’s got a comb in his right hand and the fingers of his left hand are sunk deep in the curls at the back of his head, trying in vain to work out a stubborn knot. He’s half-naked and has been scrubbed near pink from his recent bath, and had been singing under his breath as he worked until the knot to end all knots tripped him up.

Before he knows what he’s doing, Flint has crossed to Silver and is taking the comb from his hand. “Let me,” he says, and Silver goes obligingly still. Flint works the knot out as gently as possible, and when he’s through he continues combing Silver’s hair for him. “All this time and somehow I’ve never seen you comb this mane of yours before,” he muses.

“It’s a pain in my arse, is why,” Silver says, even as his eyes slip closed and he leans into Flint’s touch. “It can’t be combed dry or I’ll look ridiculous, like a sheep in need of shearing. I have to work all the knots out when I wash it. Which is, regrettably, not as often as I would like.”

Flint considers his words carefully. “What did they do about it at the boys’ home, when you were a child?”

Silver stiffens almost imperceptibly, and one eye slides open. “They cut it all off, short as yours is now. Easier to care for. Less risk of pests roosting in it. And so on.”

Flint wraps one lustrous dark curl around his index finger, marveling at how it almost seems to have a life of its own. “Shame,” he murmurs.

Silver relaxes again.

—

Silver, panting and sweaty, collapses on top of Flint, fevered groans still echoing in Flint’s ears. He nuzzles into Flint’s neck, his hair spreading out across both of them, sticking to Flint’s flushed, bare chest. Flint reaches out and delicately takes a single curl in his fingers, stretching it out and releasing it just to see it spring back.

Silver turns his head to regard Flint incredulously, then bursts out laughing, eyes bright and color high in his cheeks. “I cannot believe you just did that.”

“Couldn’t help myself,” Flint replies, unfazed. “I’ve always wanted to. Ever since we first met.”

“I suppose it makes sense,” Silver says, pushing himself up on one elbow and studying Flint, almost preening. “It is my best feature.”

“I must disagree,” Flint rumbles, running one thumb over Silver’s lower lip. “It may be your most unusual, but it is not your best.”

“Ah? Then what is?” Silver asks, leaning in close, nudging his forehead affectionately against Flint’s. 

Abruptly, Flint rolls them over, pressing his leg between Silver’s thighs and leaning down to bite and suck his neck hard enough to leave marks. “Narcissistic little shit. I could just tell you, but I’d rather show you,” he purrs. 

“Please do,” Silver says, already breathless again with want.

—

They’re seated opposite each other at Flint’s desk, studying a faded, tattered chessboard by the low light of a single lamp, when Flint speaks the first words he’s said in nearly an hour. They don’t talk much when they play chess, unless they’ve been into the rum beforehand.

“Where do you get your hair from, John?” he asks, rubbing his beard with one hand as he contemplates his next move.

Silver glances up, idly turning a ring on one of his fingers. “It grows out of my head this way,” he tries lamely, then sighs and continues. “As I’m sure you know, James, I didn’t know my mother. I hardly remember my father at all, much less what his hair looked like. I spent most of my childhood in–”

“A boys’ home, yes, I’ve heard you say so before,” Flint says as he finally moves a cork that’s standing in for a missing chess piece. There’s a note of something akin to disappointment in his voice.

“I don’t see why it should matter, anyhow,” Silver says with forced levity, moving one of his pieces decisively. He plays much more boldly and haphazardly than Flint, and usually wins.

“Of course you don’t,” Flint says softly, studying the board and refusing to meet Silver’s inquiring gaze. He moves another piece, then sits back, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.

Silver sucks in a breath through his teeth, emotion passing across his face like a cloud across the sky. He makes a final, decisive move. “Checkmate,” he informs Flint quietly.

**Author's Note:**

> When I saw Silver with all his hair loose and flying around in 4x09, I knew I had to write something. As I told vowelinthug (hi!), this is the first thing I've written in literally years, and it's also the first thing I've written for this fandom. Be gentle everybody!
> 
> Title taken from the Bishop Briggs song of the same name. Unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine. I got the idea of them playing chess together from another fic, credit where credit is due!


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